


(My) Dear in the Deadlights

by angelgalling



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Deadlights (IT), Derry (Stephen King), Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Hospitals, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Reddie, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, The Kissing Bridge (IT)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24854878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelgalling/pseuds/angelgalling
Summary: The Losers have a final confrontation with their lifelong trauma in It's lair. The events play out like the movie until Richie is dropped from the deadlights and saves Eddie from his fate. From there, this fic gets very gay and very happy because that is exactly what these two morons deserve.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier
Kudos: 26





	(My) Dear in the Deadlights

**Author's Note:**

> This fic gets a little graphic description wise so if you're squeamish, please consider that before reading! I don't think it's that bad but I'm also really biased so!! Additionally, this fic wasn't beta'ed by anyone but I did read it over twice and gave myself feels each time so I think it passes the test! 
> 
> enjoy xx

“Yeah, that’s right, let’s dance! Yippee Ki-yay, motherfu--”

And with the illumination of a piercing light, Richie’s body slacks like a rag doll and suspends in the air. His mind becomes absent of any and all thoughts; instead, just replays a loop of misery and death.

Just as Bev said before back at the Inn, It shows Richie the death of his friends, the ones he couldn’t even remember seventy-two hours ago, and Richie’s slack body can do nothing about it. First, the deadlights show Stan with a razor in the tub, broken before he could even be shattered. Next, he sees Bev battered to the point of no return by the hands of her husband; Bill and Mike and Ben make it longer, but all suffer fates similar to the friends before them. Richie dies the same way he lived: with a quick joke. He disguises the face of a grieving man with a comedy act in LA and walks off stage before he cries into the microphone. His despair is in an unseen context that he cannot understand yet, and as he makes his way to the rooftop of the casino, the vision of him just sighs. His death is implied, not seen, because the scene changes and Eddie Kaspbrak has just been impaled in front of him. Eddie dies here, today. He understands the mourning in the vision’s eyes-- this fucking clown has a sick sense of irony. 

Suddenly, he’s falling.

The surface he lands on are the cold stones of It’s lair. His feet take most of the force but he still lands on his back. He finds it bittersweet that his body feels disoriented from being under the cast of the deadlights; yet, his mind is alert enough to see Eddie rushing toward him, just like in the vision of his death. The smile on Eddie’s face is one of triumph.

“Hey Rich, wake up! Listen, I think I got him--”

With every muscle in his body (and there aren’t many since he’s never had the best physique to begin with) he pushes Eddie off of him and as far away as possible. Similar to the slowing of time he felt while in the deadlights, he feels as if he is watching this moment through molasses. He sees Eddie’s brows furrow and eyes widen, and Ben and Bev are frozen in place several yards away. Richie has no time to brace himself for the impact of It’s telson spike. He doesn’t watch intentionally, but knows he’s been impaled due to the indescribable pain in his abdomen. He tastes iron and feels every nerve ending in his stomach light on fire. Instantly, Eddie is on him, trembling and working frantically to apply pressure to the wound. 

It focuses on the others, who have created a distraction so that Dr. K can work up some kind of magic. Somewhere between the impairment and the beginning of Richie's death, Eddie managed to propose a theory of how to kill It. Richie wishes he were strong enough to remember what he said, but his brain is is scattered, just like his organs feel.

As sick as it is, Richie wants to make a joke so fucking bad.

“Eds, hey,” he whispers.

Through panicked tears, Eddie asks, “Yeah, Rich?”

“Thought my dick would be the one doing the impaling around here.”

Eddie breaks out one sob masqueraded as a laugh. Richie wants to ask if the joke was truly funny, because that’s the reassurance he wants if he’s going to die in this crusty-ass pit of the Earth. Making Eddie laugh was his favorite thing as a kid, something he can’t believe he ever forgot. 

His vision begins to fade. He can’t tell if Eddie is smiling or frowning, but given the circumstances, he’s probably doing the latter. He hears Mike, Ben, and Bev yelling at It several yards away from where he’s lying.

“Eddie, are they bullying the clown right now?” 

"Yeah, man. Told them to make It feel small, like I did when he appeared as the leper. Don't worry about that right now, Chee."

The smaller of the two answers quickly and works faster at changing the compress over Richie’s wound. Eddie had ripped his jacket into pieces to use as bandages to stop the blood. Richie, slipping further away, is in awe at his precision and cannot believe Eddie didn't become a doctor of some kind. He figures each of the Losers holds some degree of wasted potential, but nothing as severe as the world’s most capable person becoming something as lame as a risk analysis. But, after all, they’re named the Losers club for a reason. 

Richie laughs a little when he hears the rest of the group call It...a mummy? Richie thinks death is a comedian, that he and fate are in the same business, because reality is not making as much sense as it should; then again, he did just get stabbed by a clown-spider hybrid from outer space. Richie can’t believe this was his life. 

“Rich,” Eddie pleas,” just hold on.” 

And Richie will. He’s gripping the memories of his friends so tight he’d have white knuckles if the moments were tangible. He’s reminiscing on the sunny days spent in the quarry and at the barrens and swimming and being silently in love with the boy, now a man, in front of him. Even in death, Richie has no courage. Eddie is playing nurse to his dying body and Richie can’t mutter single ‘I love you’ right before he slips into eternity. What the fuck is up with that? Eddie deserves a moment like that-- one with no hesitation and unfiltered love. Not some half-assed wedding with a woman identical to the mother that smothered him for eighteen long years. So he thinks those words in his head, thinks really hard, but the inconvenience of dying comes over him, so he closes his eyes and drifts away from the lair. He’s so tired. 

So fucking tired.

“Richie, don’t you fucking dare. Look at me.” 

And so he does, but barely. Eddie looks worn. His face--so handsome-- is caked with mud and tears that trail over his smooth cheeks. He doesn’t seem to mind the sweat on his forehead that pools into his eyebrows and races down to his stab wound. The problem with looking at Eddie right now is that Richie knows he will never get enough. He can’t focus on Eddie’s features due to slipping in and out of consciousness, and the few seconds he does sneak can’t make up for the twenty-some years he lost. If death is a comedian, it must be a romantic, too, which makes it a sadist in general. 

“Eds, the kissing bridge.”

“Richie, what the fuck does that have to do with anything right now.”

Richie tries to tell him to go there after he dies, but for some reason, he’s scared. Not of Eddie knowing he’s been hopelessly in love with him since the summer he grew a single chest hair, but of dying. He never thought his death would be with a cold slab of stone beneath him and the person with the warmest heart gripping his hand. He was hoping to be senile in a nursing home bickering about pepto bismal and farting at new nurses’ aids. Then, just after his bedpan gets cleaned for the last time, he'll slip into a nice slumber and wake up in hell. That was the plan, up until Derry reminded him of what it took away. 

He doesn’t find the energy to explain himself because the urge to sleep is stronger. He hears Eddie pleading this time, and Richie wants to comfort him so bad even though he’s the one dying. 

He sees the rest of the group approach him right before he slips into oblivion. He wants to ask if they won, but the fact that they're standing over him and not being attacked speaks for itself.

The last thing he remembers is the feeling of holding Eddie’s hand. 

~~~~~~~~~

When Richie was seven, he had a bad molar come in on the left side of his face that Went intended to operate on as soon as possible. Scared at the prospect of surgery, young Richie used Eddie and Bill for comfort, for this was in the years of his life before the official formation of the Losers. His two friends took care of him by offering their services to Maggie and by playing video games with Richie to calm his nerves. On the day of the surgery, Richie asked Went if there would be a bright light above him like in the movies. Went told him about doctors needing to see what they’re doing, so yes, there would be. Richie, scared out of his tiny mind, cried all the way to his dad’s office.

In conclusion: even the deadlights were not as bright as the horrifying fluorescent lights in hospitals. 

He groans as the light becomes more and more evident, the skin over his eyes not enough to cover the annoyance of the glow. He peels his eyes open to get a glimpse of where he is. The surroundings are fuzzy, but he can make sense of the hospital gown and the large, private room. He sees a figure sleeping in one of the chairs to his left but has no time to figure out who it is before he knocks out again. 

Morphine is one hell of a drug.

~~~~~~~~~

The second time he opens his eyes, they stay that way. 

The hospital room he’s in is easier to distinguish now. The chair to his left lacks the figure he thought he saw earlier so Richie wonders if the whole thing was a dream made up by a sloshed brain, which makes the most sense considering that he feels disoriented still. He presses the button for a nurse, and immediately, ten people rush into the room and check his vitals, asks if he needs anything, wonders how he’s feeling, yadda yadda. 

Richie asks for a cold glass of fucking water. 

His water is brought back to him by a small, dark-haired nurse. He asks if he’s had any visitors.

“Oh, and how long was I out?”

The nurse smiles. “You’ve had people in and out the whole two weeks you’ve been under. One in particular refuses to leave so I’ll see if it’s okay to bring him back.”

He nods, deep throating the water like it’s the summer he discovered he has an affinity for dudes, too. The water makes his throat go from the Sahara to the Amazonian rainforest real quick. He sits on the ‘out for two weeks’ thing for as long as possible, wondering how he could have so many visitors. He assumed the Losers needed to get back to their lives: Bill has a movie to make, Bev a divorce to (hopefully) file, Mike a life to live, Ben a lady to get, and Eddie…

Richie wants Eddie here but knows he’s probably back in the Big City with his weird wife and monotonous job. As a matter of fact, of course Eddie would move to “The Big Apple,” that health freak is so extra that he probably meant to pull some irony with that shit. The thought of it makes him laugh, and fucking hell, he will not be doing that again any time soon. After the pain subsides, Richie pulls the covers back, along with his robe, and looks at the handiwork of the Derry hospital. The blood he remembers from before is now completely gone and is replaced with beige bandages that wrap all around his midsection. While investigating, he checks to make sure his dick is still in place. Upon examination, it is unharmed, which is a damn good thing. Maybe he’s selfish, but Richie would have rather died than lived without his dick.

“Are you looking at your dick?”

The voice coming from the doorway racks his whole body-- it’s quiet on delivery but holds a hint of laugher. He lowers the blanket and looks at Eddie, who is slouched in the doorway and looking rather constipated. Stubble has grown on his face thick enough to define his facial features and make him look sexy as hell. His clothes look worn, like he hasn’t washed them in a while. Richie knows he can look no better, but two strangers in this room would have a hard time figuring out the one who almost died. Ya know, aside from Richie being in the hospital bed. Richie wonders what he’s still doing here, why he isn’t back with his wife and way from Maine. 

“Had to make sure the prize pig was in good enough shape to attend the state fair,” Richie adds. He drops the sheets and beams a smile at Eddie, not giving a shit how he looks.

Eddie walks to the chair closest to the door. His moves are hesitant, and the demeanor worries Richie for some reason. He sits and leans forward, elbows on his knees. He runs his hands through his hair. 

“You look better,” Eddie says.

“Yeah, better than being a human donut, right? Cause ya know, the hole…” Richie makes one small motion to his abdomen as he finishes his comment, alluding to the fact that he was stabbed, ya know, just in case Eddie forgot.

“Yeah, no shit.” 

Richie nods, unsure of what to say. Honest to God, he didn’t think he’d make it this far. He had just assumed the last thing he would see was Eddie’s face hovering over him and then his world would stop, and the Losers would move on. Richie never considered living, just figured that it wasn’t in the cards for him; nor did he consider the Losers caring enough to stick around to watch him sleep on the job for two whole weeks.

“Why are you still here? Don’t you have to get back to Mrs. K?”

Eddie winces, either from the childhood memories he has from that name or the ones it implies now. Either way, he shakes his head.

“No, I, uh, told her I wouldn’t be coming back.” 

Richie does not respond because he is nervous about what that exactly entails. Not going back for a while or never going back to her at all? Richie may still be dizzy from the drugs, but he knows something isn’t being said here. 

“Oh, damn okay.” 

Eddie quickly adds, “Everyone is on their way over. I stayed here to make sure everything was okay. We’ve been staying at Mike’s.”

Richie sits up too fast at the comment and bothers his stitching. Eddie is on his feet and at Richie’s side instantly, hissing at him to lie back down.

“You really are a fucking idiot, aren’t you?”

Richie ignores the jab. “What the hell are you all still doing here?”

Eddie looks at him like he’s just said the most insulting thing in the world. 

“Um, you nearly fucking died? What were we supposed to do, go back to our lives while you were in a co-coma?” 

Eddie’s voice breaks, leaving a hole for the perfect opportunity ‘okay, Bill’ comment, but Richie bites his tongue. To really consider that his best friends wouldn’t have cared if he died is such a prick move. Richie has never deemed himself to be of much value, but to the people that love him, he’s convinced he’s worth more than the accumulated price of all the boob jobs in the world. Throwing himself at death was his first thought, all in an attempt to save Eddie, so why did he assume they would give up on him so easily? Why did he even dare think they wouldn’t have done the same? 

But would they? Because Richie’s decision to throw himself in front of the spiked leg of a supernatural clown was also driven in part by a lifelong boner. Sure, the Losers would do anything for him, but Richie wonders how deep their love runs. For Richie, the love he has for Eddie is seismic. He’s pissed at the universe for taking that away from him, for clouding his memory of the best person in his life. Pissed that he’s had zero steady romantic relationships because none of them fit like he felt they should, like there was a different number he wanted to text a nude to or some shit. And all this time, there was. 

Richie Tozier is not crazy, but he sure is a fucking idiot.

“Aww, you guys love me. What fucking saps.”

“Shut up, trashmouth.” Richie swears he sees a blush, and before getting to crack a joke about it, Eddie continues: “we really do.”

Richie is feeling a bit warm at this comment, so what a pleasantly timed entrance the rest of the Losers make to ruin the fucking moment. Ben and Bev are carrying flowers while Mike and Bill carry balloons and big smirks on their faces.

Bev sits the vase of flowers down on his bedside table, grabs his face with both hands on either side, and plants a million and one different kisses all over him. Richie is taken back by the affection but allows it-- he has never been happier to have all of the people he loves in one place. He wishes they could have met up again in the Hamptons or some shit rather than the shitty town that left them scarred for life. 

He laughs low, low enough that it doesn’t agitate his wound, and mumbles “Okay Bevvie, don’t want to make Ben jealous.”

She pulls away with tears down her face, ignoring the comment that Richie said. Richie chuckles at the fact that Ben didn’t, who is now bright red in the face from what was said.

“So,” Mike asks, “how are you feeling.” 

Richie looks to Eddie, who has been oddly quiet this entire time. 

“What, did you brainiacs have a conference or something? ‘Richie was literally turned into a kebab and miraculously lived so let’s start asking obvious questions to see if he can keep up?” He looks to them, hoping for a light chuckle at the least, but gets silence in response. He knows they mean well, and he isn’t mad, just wishes they would lighten up. He’s obviously okay and needs the mourning shit to cut out immediately. He’s not good with the emotions of almost dying.

“Guys, I’m fine, okay? Like, obviously in pain but very much alive. I won’t break, so toss some sarcastic comments at me, ya know? Try and break me like that clown couldn’t.” 

“We w-watched yo-yo-your sketches at Mike’s. Pretty obvious you, did-didn’t, pretty obvious you didn’t write your own stuff.” Bill chimes in first, helping Richie visibly relax.

“Yeah, Eddie kept saying he knew it felt fake even before you told us at the Orient,” Ben added. 

Richie looks to Eddie, who smiles at being mentioned. 

“Doesn’t take a genius to identify a steaming pile of shit.” It’s the first thing Eddie’s said since everyone piled into the room. He’s cowering with his head down and is oddly still considering the  1.21 Jigowatts buzzing around in him at all times. 

“That’s more like it,” Richie adds, “beat the man while he’s in the hospital bed, I can take it. I’m a masochist, ya know.” Richie deliberately winks at Eddie, who instantly turns bright red. The Losers laugh even more when Eddie clears his throat.

“Finally snared ya into one, didn’t I, Eds?”

“Don’t call me that, dickwad.” 

Bev intervenes, ““Okay, kids, enough bickering. We’re all going to get something to eat. Richie, want me to see if we can bring you back anything?” 

“Booze, and if they say no, tell em’ it’s to put some hair back on my chest.” 

Bev laughs as they leave the room, “yeah, I’ll see what I can do.” 

As they turn, Richie immediately thinks of what they’re all here for. No one has mentioned whether or not they killed It, and the lack of knowing makes Richie want to hurl.

“Guys,” at his tone, the group turns to Richie. “Did we kill that clown?”

All of them smile, seeming so relieved. Bill speaks up.

“Yeah, R-Richie, we did.”

Richie is left alone and thank god because he has to shit something fierce, finally able to do so without the anxiety of the clown or eyes of his friends. The nurse that gave him his water earlier helps him into the restroom and monitors him closely.

“It’s not to say that I don’t enjoy the view, but can’t a man who recently woke from a coma get some privacy around here?” 

The nurse laughs, “sorry Mr. Tozier, I have to make sure you’re safe.”

“Oh, so are you my guardian angel? The one that was sitting in here when I woke up the other day? How thoughtful of you.” 

Classic Richie, getting his flirt on while he’s taking a shit.

“No, I do have other patients to see. I believe that was your friend, the one with the cheek injury. Seems like you guys had a pretty interesting time.” 

The information surprises him. He tries to wipe his own ass and succeeds, only asking for help as he walks back to the bed after washing his hands. Richie’s pride doesn’t hurt much considering more important matters are at hand: why did Eddie stay with him for such a long period of time? He desperately wants to say it’s because Eddie might love him back, but Richie Tozier hasn’t been much of an optimist since seeing his friends die in a vision brought on by the blinding true form of a killer fucking clown.

He’s never going to recover from this shit, huh?

He thanks the nurse and watches her ponytail sway as she leaves the room. Richie meant to ask her how long he’ll be here for but is still wrapped in his own egotistical thoughts Apparently, he doesn’t think about anything other than Edward Kaspbrak and his gorgeous face and nice ass and charm and speaking of the fucking devil--

“What are you doing back so soon?”

Eddie walks into the room seeming tense.

“I, uh, I didn’t go with them. The nurse told me you hit the call button while we were all in there so I waited outside. They went to the Orient again, dunno how they can stomach that shit after what we saw.” 

“Well, Spaghetti, it was what  _ we  _ saw. It’s not like they’re literally serving fortune cookies that can literally see your future.” Richie chuckles at his own joke but does not get a similar response out of Eddie. “Get it? Cause of the eye?

“Yeah, I get it, Rich.” Eddie chuckles and shakes his head, pausing briefly before adding, “I’m really glad you’re okay.” It comes out as a whisper.

“Yeah, I am too, Eds. Hopefully I’ll have a kickass scar to make up dumb stories about. Imagine me being at a party in LA and telling people: ‘Ya, you know me, Richie Tozier, arm wrestled a killer clown in Maine for nothing but kicks and got this kickass scar from it.’

The laugh Eddie makes in response to the joke is strong enough to ease Richie’s shoulders. He’s sitting in the chair closest to the door again, only this time, he leans back, already seeming more confident since the time they were alone together. They both sit in silence for a while. Richie closes his eyes and soaks in the moment. He’s already missed out on so much of this, just being in the moment with Eddie and taking in every ounce of his company. Call him what you will, but Richie is sick of the longing.

“Eds?”

“Mhmm?”

“Did you go to the kissing bridge like I asked you to?”

Eddie’s attention shoots from his fingers straight to Richie. He’s eyes are wide and his body reanimates into the statue he was when he walked for the first time. He’s searching for answers in the stillness between them, which makes it obvious to Richie that he did go and is now trying to decide whether or not to lie about it. He figures Eddie’s reaction right now means that Eddie has been quiet this entire time because he fucking  _ knows  _ that Richie’s a flaming homo for him. 

“You remember saying that?”

Richie nods, “Of course, and I meant it as my dying wish. Seeing as I didn’t kick the bucket, I imagine you didn’t go?” 

“No, Rich, I went.”

There is no immediate explanation beyond that, so Richie’s brain panics. He assumes that it’s over, that he really fucked up this time. Richie Tozier talked too much when he should have kept his mouth shut and now his second chance at a normal life with his closest friends is ruined because he had to give Eddie a subliminal message of undying love. 

“Richie, I don’t want to have this conversation if you’re not feeling up to it.” Eddie barely gets the words out before Richie is yelling.

“What conversation? Your silence was enough, Eddie, I get it. If you don’t feel the same, that’s fine, but at least have the balls to tell me that,” he pauses to groan in pain, but the sharp movements that irritate his wound are nothing compared to the rejection. “Then again, it’s thoughtful you’d break my heart while I’m still near some cardiologists.” He’s out of breath. He’s hurting. He’s hurting in more ways than one

“Are you done rambling,” shouts Eddie in defense. “I didn’t want to force you to have the conversation about what I saw at the bridge because you’re in a fucking hospital bed. The last thing I want to do is pressure you after you just woke up from a two-week coma.” 

He pauses to lower his voice and continues. 

“The first few days were the hardest, Rich. You looked so bad. We brought you out of the sewers and you were barely alive. You didn’t make any sounds, any noise… that’s not like you. It’s obvious from this conversation alone that you never shut up.” 

He lets out a breathy laugh, turns his head, but not before Richie sees tears.

“We got you here and they said you were seconds, fucking seconds, away from dying. Dying, Richie! You were in surgery for fifteen hours! I couldn’t focus on anything, couldn’t eat. Ben and Mike still had to drag me out of the waiting room even though they confirmed your surgery was a success. I slept for a whole day after that and panicked when I woke up because I thought there was a chance you died.”

He pauses to catch his breath while Richie has been holding his the entire time. He sits back down, looks up at Richie, and starts again. 

“After that, I went to the bridge. I had no fucking clue what you were talking about but when I saw it, I broke down. I cried and cried because it felt like a confirmation that you loved me like I love you. So I went straight to the hospital and didn’t leave your side. Every day, a nurse would come in here and tell me to go, that visiting hours were over, so I would go back to the bridge and just think about you. Think about how I’ve loved you since we were kids and now that I could really act on it, you had the possibility of fucking dying. 

He pauses and lets out the biggest sigh. Richie sees a mixture of emotions on his face but is too stunned to even consider working out what they might be. 

“Nine days after we brought you in, I called Myra and asked for a divorce. I told her she could have everything. She tried fighting me and I told her I’m not the same person she knew a month ago, that I- that I was in love with someone else. I had been thinking about it before I even came to Derry, before I even remembered all of you, but being near you was the driving force behind it all. I had to do something for myself for once.”

Richie doesn’t remember when he started crying.

“I carved that a few weeks after you broke your arm. I didn’t see you much so I ended up missing you a whole fucking lot,” he mumbles. 

Eddie fucking Kaspbrak shudders with a sob. God help him, but Richie does, too, and while it hurts in the center of his body, he’s still totally euphoric. Eddie loves him, too. Like, for real.

“I was here the first time you woke up. The doctors told me your body was in shock and needed more time to rest. When you woke up today, I had fallen asleep in the waiting room watching Dr. Phil. Richie, I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up--”

“Stop that. Come here.”

Richie’s arms are open and Eddie gravitates towards them. He maintains a gentle composure as to not bother Richie’s wound and both of them cry like fucking babies. Eddie keeps muttering ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry” and Richie keeps wondering how in the fuck he got so lucky to be alive and to get a second chance like this. 

Richie pulls away, and as he does, and grabs Eddie’s face. 

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

Eddie smiles and nods, already fluttering closed before Richie moves in.

There’s enough urgency in the kiss to satisfy three decades worth of hunger. To mend the time lost between leaving Derry and gaining their memories back. To remind Richie of what it’s like to be a kid; to be in love again; to be young. Richie Tozier didn’t think he’d ever find out that kissing Eddie is much more addictive than making him laugh. 

When they pull away, Eddie is smiling. Richie knows he is too because he just kissed the love of his whole fucking life. 

“Wait, so you left Myra for me?”

“Well don’t get a big fucking head about it.” 

Richie laughs and moves over on the bed to make space for Eddie, who gets the message and lies down with him. 

“Eddie, what do we do after I leave? Cause you know there’s no way in hell I’m ever letting your fine ass out of my sight again.”

“I don’t know. Guess I could come out to LA with you, if that’d be alright. Some California sun shouldn’t hurt me as long as I have steady access to some SPF 70.”

He looks down at Eddie, whose eyes are looking back at him.

“You’d seriously come out west with me? Eddie, this means we could be two gay cowboys! Like Brokeback Mountain!”

“Oh my god.” He laughs and snuggles closer to Richie, which is barely possible since they’re already close enough to be mistaken for a single person lying in the bed. 

“I’m not wearing a fucking cowboy hat.”

Richie shifts a little. 

“Fine, but don’t give me the image of that right now unless you want me to tent this blanket.” 

“Okay,” Eddie says with a smirk, “I’ll just save that useful info for later.” And he winks up at Richie-- fucking  _ winks _ .

Richie dives right in for another kiss, because if he doesn’t shut himself up, he’s going to say some really hormonal shit. But, then again, it’s also because he can just do this now-- kiss Eddie without worrying about being bitch slapped, called some derogatory name, or ruining the only relationship that has ever made him feel worthy. Worthy of the love he is receiving through this kiss, or through their bodies being as close as this hospital bed will allow. 

When they part, Eddie rests his head on Richie’s shoulder and Richie leans his back on the pillow. The pain is consistent in his abdomen but he feels invincible. A supernatural entity tried to kill him, and failed, which resulted in the love of his life confessing that there were mutual feelings between them their entire lives. Sure, they lost twenty-seven years in between, but he’ll lift his metaphorical glass to celebrate the next twenty-seven he’s been given. Richie’s so content that he feels himself relaxing into sleep, finally not feeling the desperate need to say anything.

“Hey Eds?”

“Mhmm?”

“If I fall asleep, please don’t leave.”

“No worries there. I’m never leaving your lanky ass ever again.”

Richie smiles and thanks him. 

A brief moment passes before Eddie speaks up.

“Richie, before you fall asleep, tell me what you remember from the deadlights.”

Richie hopes Eddie doesn’t notice how he tenses at the question. Sure, he could tell Eddie in detail about all seven of their gruesome deaths, but Richie knows that comes with telling Eddie that he was supposed to die right over Richie’s disoriented body? He would have to explain that he sacrificed himself in order to save his life and how he didn’t even have to give it a second thought. Eddie would never forgive him. Furthermore, how could he describe the pain in Bev’s black-rimmed eyes and the belt in her husband’s hand and the exact details of Stan in the bathtub and all of the other shit he vividly remembers of their best friends?

Of course these are the memories he’ll never forget. 

“I remember seeing Stan’s death like Bev said but nothing else. That fucking clown was stalling, I think.”

“Huh, that’s so weird.”

No more is said about the deadlights, so they both adjust their limbs and get comfortable enough to nap before the rest of the Losers get back. Richie doesn’t need the booze anymore because the post-coma angst has been replaced by the infinite love he can share with his Spaghetti Man. Richie begins to doze off thinking eagerly of wedding plans and decides that Eddie will wear only those little red shorts he wore as a kid and a black cowboy hat. He huffs at the thought and clings to Eddie a little tighter, finally comforted by the tangibility of the memories he’s going to make. 

Richie intends to spend these next twenty-seven years happily in love. 


End file.
